Bound by Your Touch (3 page)

The redheaded man was now gloating. She caught the rhythm, if not the precise words, that he cackled into Ayresbury's ear. Mockery. There went any chance at the funding, then. When word of this fiasco reached Cairo, Papa would feel terribly disappointed. He had counted on Ayresbury's endorsement. For that matter, she had counted on securing it. She
owed him
this.

With sudden fury, she gathered her skirts and marched forward. The ginger critic harrumphed as she passed, but she paid him no heed. Elbowing through the melee, ignoring all manner of complaint, she drew up at the stela, so her skirts almost brushed the edge of the slab.

One glance decided her. "Its fake," she said.

No one appeared to hear.

Her vehemence startled even her. In the brief, ensuing silence, as her temper began to cool, she wondered what she had done. She opened her mouth to soften her condemnation, to qualify it, but someone beat her.

"Never," exclaimed a gentleman who, disregarding all propriety, had fallen to his hands and knees for a closer look. "On the contrary, it has every mark of authenticity!"

That was
a bit much, she thought.

"Such a rarity," another man cooed. "Why, Lord Sanburne has unearthed a miracle! Just look at—"

"Enough of you," snapped the older gentleman to whom the stela had been presented. His watery blue
eyes
focused on Lydia. As he stepped forward, the crowd of people around them stepped back. "Have you some knowledge of this artifact, Miss Boyce?"

"Naturally she does." This from Antonia, who came up in a cloud of perfume—Sophie's special blend from Paris; a sniff confirmed it—to slip her arm through Lydias. Lydia had told her time and again that debutantes did not wear such heavy scents, but Sophie
would
encourage her. "Indeed," Ana continued in merry tones, "how could she not? Why, she was reading cuneiforms while still on Papa's knee. And she spends every afternoon studying Arabic at the British Library!"

The old man looked more than gratified by this exaggeration. "Of course. I am a great admirer of Mr. Boyce's work." He held out his hand to Anto-nia. "Forgive the informality. I am Moreland, Earl of Moreland."

Antonia took his hand and sank into as best a curtsy as she could manage, given her trailing skirts and the onlookers not a foot away. "How fortunate that you are not the Earl of
Lessland;
I fear that would be most distressing to your well-wishers."

The earl laughed, and Lydia forced a polite smile. She was distracted by a glimpse of the interloper, Sanburne. He was working his way toward them, and proximity revealed the full extent of his disarray. His cuffs were flapping open. A wine-colored stain covered his periwinkle waistcoat.

The smile he sent her suggested imminent bloodshed.

"I am sure you have never heard that one before," Ana was saying. A saucy little smile rode her lips.

"True wit bears endless repetition," the earl said gal-landy. He turned to Lydia, who, jolted from premonition, made a curtsy. He gestured to the stone at their feet. "Truly, is it a forgery?"

Oh, she was in it now.
Mold your spine of steel.
"Without a doubt," she said. She did not glance down. She felt it unwise to remove her
eyes
from Sanburne, who had now joined them in the inner circle.

"Well?" Sanburne said. His
eyes
were horribly bloodshot.

"Not well at all," she said. "Quite poor, in fact."

"Explain yourself."

She drew a breath. He really did have the most formidable glare. "I—"

"You will have to pardon my son his manners," the earl interrupted. He cast a fierce look at the man, who arched a brow, as unrepentant as Lucifer.

Digesting this unexpected news of their relationship, Lydia felt a sharper prickle of unease. The Durham family was notorious: the sister a murderess, stashed in some insane asylum in the country; and the son, she recalled now, a wild socialite who entertained the beau monde by outwitting his father in various public locales.

Dear heavens. It seemed she had stepped into some nasty familial tangle. Her every word would only implicate her further. "Perhaps you should consult one of the other gentlemen." Her spine wasn't really made of steel, after all. That was a silly saying, made up by someone who had never felt what it meant to be broken. "This is not my area of specialty. And in a room with so many distinguished scholars—"

"Precisely," said the earl's son.

"Nonsense," said the earl. "As far as I reckon, you're the only one with the good sense to take a second look before bursting into this—this
chorus
of hallelujahs. Out with it, girl; whence your verdict?"

Antonia laughed softly, squeezing her arm. "Oh,
do
tell them, Lydia." To Lydia's unease, her gaze rested on the thunderous face of the prodigal son.

Well, it seemed that the quickest way out of this was to bumble her way through it. She laid her hand atop Ana's, taking comfort from her sister's touch. "Numerous reasons lead me to suspect the authenticity of this item," she said slowly. Now she did give it a longer look, and to her relief, her intuition seemed well-founded.

"Yes. It attempts to approximate a funerary stela of the Intermediate Period, but in such a tableau, one would expect to see jars of beer. Instead we have what look to be pots of ointment. And that is not . . ." Her gaze flicked to Sanburne's, then quickly away. The scar dividing one of his brows was flushed crimson with the force of his irritation. "That is not Nefertiti, and she is not
snuggling.
She is kneeling, which is all wrong. One only kneels to divinity. I suspect, if you examine the chisel marks on the back, you will also discover that this was not fashioned with an adze. In all ways, it simply doesn't.. . look right."

Lord Sanburne snorted. "Perhaps someone with better vision should have a
look,
then."

She tightened her grip on Antonia. "I see perfecdy well. That is the purpose of spectacles, after all."

"By the deuces," someone behind her called. "She's right."

The earl smiled. "My dear! Such a keen eye. We're fortunate that you've chosen to follow in your father's footsteps."

That was not her intention, but now did not seem to be the time to announce it. "Thank you, sir/' She gathered herself to look once more at the earl's son. This time, she did not let his glare deter her. "I believe the field requires fresh perspectives. So often I find Egyptology to serve as an excuse, allowing men of a certain disposition to collect pretty trinkets in the name of science." Her gaze flicked down to the rings on the man's fingers, then back up.

Whatever reaction she had expected—an angry flush, a protest, perhaps even a violent assault (she did not think him beyond it)—she was not prepared for him to smile at her. And such a smile! Slow at first, as if considering whether or not to widen; and then, suddenly, shifting into laughter. It transformed his face. He was, all at once, breathtaking.

But then something went wrong. His laugh started out softly, but he did not seem able to stop it. As his mirth rose in volume, it assumed a lunatic quality. Lydia dimly sensed people scattering back to their seats, but she could not look away from the young lord's face. It was more than morbid curiosity that arrested her. She'd never seen someone lose his mind before, but Sanburne managed it beautifully. The sight tightened her throat, and only this prevented her impulse to—

To do what? Great ghosts, what could she possibly think to say to such a creature? His beauty was meaningless, as random and unmerited as the pattern on butterflies' wings. She should know better than to let it affect her.

For the earl's part, he seemed more irritated than concerned. "Snap out of it, boy! By God, what have you been smoking?"

The earl's son choked to a stop. "Got me," he said to Lydia. Then, on another burble of laughter, he snapped his fingers toward the footman, who promptly produced a coat. As he flung it on, he addressed the earl. "Maybe you should hire her to vet your collection. After all, you do seem to share a certain, ah,
rapport"

Lydia stiffened. He'd made the word sound sordid.

"My
collection? I am not such a fool to invest my money in untested frauds!"

"Perhaps
you
should hire her," Ana said to Sanburne.

"Evidently you require greater powers of discernment than are at your disposal."

"Indeed," Sanburne said, eyeing her.

The speculative quality of his look alarmed Lydia. "I am sure the blame lies elsewhere. Whomever you deal with in purchasing these antiquities—"

"Yes,
yes"
he said impatiendy. "So much for him. Father, a word with you."

He started off, then paused and turned back when the earl did not immediately accompany him.

"Don't you want your rock?" Lord Moreland inquired sweedy.

"Indeed," Sanburne said. "I shall save it to use for your tombstone. Wouldn't
that
be fitting?"

This uncanny remark made Lydia's head feel light. "Let's go find Sophie," she murmured to Ana. "There's nothing more to be done here."

She was turning away when the earl called her name. "Look for a note," he said. "I am most grateful for your advice today."

"Oh, indeed, and a note from
me,"
Sanburne said smoothly. "We
can
share you, can we not? I have many antiquities you might like to devalue."

She paused, counting to ten. But there was no way to answer him without further straining the bounds of propriety. With a mute curtsy to the earl, she turned her back on them both, and dragged her sister to safety.

Chapter Two

The last caller departed, Lydia returned to her chair. How exhausting these seasonal events could be. A whole lot of fluttering nonsense, lent the illusion of substance by the vast number of rituals surrounding them. Sophie had held court today for what seemed like half the city. It would have been a real triumph, had most not come to gawk at Lydia. All the social columns had carried mention of the debacle at the Institute.

As she leaned over to retrieve her teacup, George's voice came from the hallway. Impossible not to stiffen as she sat back again. Anas debut had forced them under the same roof until August, and the proximity had started to wear on her nerves. Only last night, Sophie had drawn her aside to mention his
immense
distress over the lecture. "He thinks you should have kept silent, and let someone else point out that the stela was a fake," she'd said.

The hypocrisy had astonished Lydia into silence. Generally George knew better than to criticize her conduct in any respect. After all, the most shocking wrong she'd ever committed had unfolded in this very room, at
his
behest.

The memory unsettled her sufficiently to make her consider saying something rash. But when the door opened, only Ana stepped into the room. She was flipping through the
cartes de visite
left by their guests. "So many people," she murmured. "Have we ever had so many?" With a smile, she looked up. "Did you hear Miss Marshall when she walked in? She mistook it for a kettledrumf

Her nerves settling, Lydia smiled back. Ana's smiles were contagious: Mr. Pagett, third son of the Earl of Far-low, certainly seemed charmed by them. All three sisters had agreed: if he made an offer in the next fortnight, they would push for a September wedding. Ana wanted a honeymoon in northern Italy, where the autumn was said to be splendid. Sophie wanted to be rid of her chaperon-age duties before her October trip to the Riviera. And the sooner Ana was setded, the sooner Lydia could continue her campaign to secure funds for Papa's project. The lecture had only been the beginning. Next she intended to travel the country, personally soliciting every over-moneyed, amateur Egyptologist who had ever bought so much as a papyrus. Certainly she could not continue to depend on the antiquities trade to finance Papa's project. It distracted him from his real work, and kept
her
in London when she would much rather be in Egypt, helping to coordinate the excavations and also to do research of her own.

Ana tossed the cards onto the center table and setded into a nearby chair. She was wearing a pretty white tulle dress, as befit a girl in her first season. Not so appropriately, her ankles were showing. "You were very popular today, Lyd."

There was a note of puzzlement in her voice that caused Lydia to hide a smile. Neither of her sisters was accustomed to being overshadowed by her. All three of them had inherited Mama's hazel
eyes
and waving black hair, but Sophie and Ana were built on smaller, more winsome lines, with rosebud lips and eyes that tilted like a cat's. As a girl, Lydia had studied the mirror often enough to know that it was the mouth which made them pretty, and the tilt which lifted them to beautiful. Lacking either, she had decided to surrender all vanity. "If I was popular, you must thank the viscount. His shenanigans received a great deal of notice."

"Oh, that's right. I wonder if he'll be at the Durhams' dinner tomorrow?"

She shrugged and reached again for her tea. "I doubt it. They do not get on, you know."

"How sad."

"Its by his own doing. Don't waste your pity on that scalawag." And then, because she did not like Ana's continuing fixation on the viscount, she changed the subject. "Did you enjoy your chat with Mr. Pagett?"